


We're So Beautiful (and so broken)

by thetidesisrising



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, F/M, Flotus, Mental Illness, POTUS, Ressler's drug addiction is mentioned, Romance, all of this is based off of what you're missing, basically a little bit like scandal minus the affair, eventual keenler, goverment, if that's a trigger, like basically i meddle in the mental illness realm, like liz is depressed, liz is also a psychatrist, nothing like scandal actually bad comparison, r5, scizophrenia, the only reason that this is m is because sometimes i offend people when i'm writing, what you're missing r5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetidesisrising/pseuds/thetidesisrising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU; psychiatrist Elizabeth Keen has painted herself the picture of a quaint life; a job she loves, and a husband on top of it. (Even if he tends to be drunk more often than not.) All of this comes crashing down once Secret Service Agent Donald Ressler enters her life, whisking her away to the President's mentally ill son. (eventually keenler)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're So Beautiful (and so broken)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Here is my first keenler multichip, which is AU and I’m very excited to share with you. Since I don’t have a beta, any mistakes are my own. No promises, but hopefully this will be finished by October 1st!!!! Enjoy and review! xx

This is how it starts: him, with a blonde girl dancing against his chest, and her, with her husband’s hands snaking up and down the sides of her tiny green dress in the heat and chaos of a club, lights flashing before each other’s eyes in the darkness. They’ll never admit it when you ask, (eyes brightening and smiles widening as the relay the story for the umpteenth time) but they were both extremely tired of their lives as they were; she, a psychiatrist who spent a good portion of her time driving up to Shepard Pratt from her home in downtown DC, where she lived with a devoted yet abusive husband who was aspiring to adopt a child due to her infertility; and he, a marine turned secret service agent with an on and off again relationship with the blonde girl he held tightly to his abdomen. (Obviously they were on again on this particular night)

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the work of a higher power, but either way she found his hand in the dark and latched on to it with him retaliating by squeezing her fingers. (They ignored the sparks that fly from the point where their hands meet to their respective bloodstreams and the way that her hand fit perfectly in his calloused one)

“I’m sorry,” she blurted as she realized that the hand she’s holding is not her husband’s, whipping her head full of brunette curls toward him.

“It’s fine,” he responded gruffly, and her eyes wandered up and down his toned body. (He does the same to her.) They turn away and that night she dreamt of blonde hair and blue eyes and he dreamt of brown hair and the way her hand felt in his.

The incident is not brought up again and is pushed from the front of their minds.

* * *

 

Until five months later when she received a phone call on a crisp winter day in February, snow falling from the sky and into her hot chocolate and her lavender scarf wrapped tightly around her neck.

“Keen,” she said sharply into the phone as she came into view of her town home.

“This is Agent Donald Ressler with the Secret Service, I am assuming the person I’m talking with is Elizabeth Keen?” a gruff voice responded, and the hair on her back became supersensitive and it wasn’t because of the cold.

“Yes this is Dr. Keen,” she corrected whilst rolling her eyes at the man’s ignorance.

“I’m on my way to your home as we speak, the president requires your services.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, nearly dropping her hot chocolate.

“Classified. I’ll debrief you once we arrive at a secure location, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

The line went dead, and she ran up the steps of her front porch and into the front door.

“Lizzie?” her husband called.

“Tom, I got your coffee, but, I just got a call and there’s this emergency and they need my help immediately –”

He grabbed his coffee from her and waved his free hand in dismissal, and quipped, “maybe one day my wife will actually be home.”

She chewed her bottom lip anxiously as she readjusted her scarf. “Tom,” she sighed. “I don’t have time for this right now, you know it’s not my choice, if I had a choice I swear –”

He snorted. “Your dad was right about you, Lizzie, you’re too invested in your work. I should have married that middle school teacher I fucked a week before I met you.”

Blinking back tears, she nodded and moved towards the door. Jokingly, she added, “And I guess I should have fucked my professor.”

A crisp double knock interrupted the argument.

She glared at him. “We’ll finish this conversation when I get back.”

He scoffed. “What do you have a boyfriend picking you up now?” He sat upright. “She’s my wife, jackass,” he yelled. “Love you Lizzie.”

She rolled her eyes to mask the pain, and opened the door; only to reveal the man she had mistakenly grasped hands with at the club Tom had dragged her to five months ago. She could tell he was just as shocked as she, and the widening of his eyes gave way to a slight look of longing.

She pursed her lips to clear her mind. “Agent Ressler?” she asked cautiously.

He cleared his throat.

“Yes. Elizabeth Keen?”

She gave him a half smile.

“Doctor Keen.”

Though he was usually stoic, Agent Ressler managed a small smile.

“Of course ma’am. I’m here to escort you to a blacksite.”

She raised her eyebrow in confusion as she followed him to his car, jumping into the passenger seat. “Blacksite?”

He nodded, buckling his seatbelt and turning his head to back out of the parking spot. “The president doesn’t want any whiff of this to hit the press. It could be devastating for the upcoming re-election.” He pulled onto the street with ease, turning left at the traffic light. “I’ll tell you more when we arrive.”

She bit her lower lip. “Okay.” Pausing as if she were afraid to ask, she turned toward him. “Would you mind if I put the radio on? It really helps me get into a professional mode.”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

She smiled broadly, leaning across the armrest to turn the stereo on, flipping through channels until she found a pop station. She adjusted the volume, eyes rolling into the back of her head as she quickly said, “I love this song.”

And though she had only met this man a few minutes before, she suddenly found herself signing along to the tune, her fingers toying with the tips of her hair.

He couldn’t help the small smile that played at his mouth as she swayed to the beat of the music, and it was like he had known her his whole life.

They arrived at the blacksite twenty minutes after he began to sing with her, (so forty minutes in all) and the airy atmosphere the pair had created in the car still lingered beneath their professional demeanors as he opened her door and lead her through the building.

“We call this the Post Office. Every president is allowed to pick a blacksite that is off record and President Cooper chose this abandoned post office. It actually was an FBI blacksite until President Cooper acquired it five years ago from Tom Connolly.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Connolly? The jerk that murdered the Senator?”

He nodded stiffly. “President Cooper used to be friends with Connolly until he attempted to frame his wife for leaking classified documents to the press.” He cleared his throat, handing her a file from the inside of his blazer. “Anyway, you’re here because of his son. The president has three children, Dembe, Samar, and Harold Jr. His oldest son Dembe works in the Navy guarding the Chief of Navy Operations, Raymond Reddington. His daughter Samar has been all over the news recently seeing as she just married computer genius and billionaire Aram Mojtabi. President Cooper’s other child, his son Harold Jr., is the youngest of the bunch, he’s sixteen and he’s always been a little bit… _off_. For a while the president chalked it up to his computer games, but yesterday he fell of the banister in the east wing because he decided that he wanted to be an acrobat. The first lady thought that he was joking, but he kept muttering German to himself.”

Liz pursed her lips. “Interesting, looking through his file it says that he’s proficient in French, Arabic, and German as well as English. Do his parents know his IQ?”

He smirked. “You’ll have to ask Charlene.”

She looked at him in confusion as he led her from the elevator they were in to a large open area.

“This is the war room,” he commented as she looked around in disbelief. He ushered her forward to the first family, all of whom were sitting in desk chairs facing the elevator. “This is Dr. Keen,” he said, leaving her side to stand beside the president.

President Cooper stood, shaking her hand. “I’m Harold Cooper, it’s an honor to meet you Dr. Keen. I’ve admired your work since my Bureau days.”

She felt her cheeks begin to warm as she shook his hand. “The honor is all mine, sir.”

He laughed. “This is my wife Charlene,” he said, gesturing to the first lady. “My son Dembe, my daughter Samar and my son-in-law Aram, and this,” he said, pointing toward the youngest man in the room. “Is my son Harry.”

She smiled, extending a hand toward the teenager. “Hi Harry, I’m Elizabeth, I’m here to hang out with you this afternoon.”

Harry nodded in affirmation.

“Lizzie!” a bold new voice boomed into the room, and she had to fight the urge to roll her eyes.

“Red!” she exclaimed, enveloping the man into a hug.

He pulled away, smiling at her. “It’s been too long Lizzie, I think the last time was poor Sam’s funeral.”

She grimaced.

He winked at her. “You’ll have to bring that _catch_ of a husband with you to our next happy hour. Dembe, can you remind Luli to schedule a happy hour with Lizzie here for me,” he added before shifting his attention toward President Cooper. “Harold you bastard, I told you she’s the best, I’d never want any other shrink than Lizzie to look after my children.”

Liz scowled, looking between Agent Ressler and the president. “Red, while it’s brilliant that you are here, I would like to remind you that this is not a social hour,” she began, her lips forming a thin line. “I’m here to do my job, which is not to babysit you while you flaunt your latest excursion for the rest of us to envy.”

He beamed.

Liz cleared her throat, turning toward President Cooper.

“You’re his father obviously, but I want to know how well you actually know him. Profile Harry,” she said, her voice altering to its business tone.

He looked at her with a smile on his face. “Profile Elizabeth Keen.”

She wasn’t expecting this from the President of the United States, even if he did have a background in the FBI. She bit her lip in contemplation, cautious on how to proceed. “My collogues call me “sir.” They think… I’m a bitch,” she confessed, her eye contact dropping in favor of her wrist. “Like most kids who raise themselves, I can display narcissistic behavior. I can be withdrawn, disconnected. Uh… I have a deep yearning to understand the human mind and its workings.” She pressed her lips together so that they formed a thin line.

He smiled, his voice booming. “Excellent! As for Harry, he’s never been as social as Samar, but never as stoic as Dembe. He’s brilliant, Charlene and I spoke to all of our kids in Arabic and English when they were little and only Harry was able to differentiate the two languages. He didn’t talk for the first six years of his life, and when he did he recited the Gettysburg Address word for word. He’s had a core group of friends throughout his life, until recently when he began to experiment with drugs and alcohol. At first we thought that his irrational behavior was because he was consistently drunk but after we disposed of all of the alcohol in the areas of the white house he has access to, the behavior continued.” He shook his head as if he were still trying to make sense of the situation. “My family has had a history with bipolar disorder, but he’s never displayed the depressive side. He mumbles to himself all of the time in German and French and we’ve had translators come in only to be puzzled because the way that he organizes his sentences are off. He sometimes hits himself again and again crying out that someone is touching him.” His pressed his lips in a line.

Liz nodded, tapping her pen against the file. “Is it okay if I write on this?” she asked.

Agent Ressler cleared his throat before adding a forced, “Yes. Anything else Dr. Keen?”

She shook her head, a piece of hair falling out of her ponytail as she scribbled vigorously on the file folder. She toyed with her bottom lip, glancing upward to look Harry directly in the eye.

“You want to eat some chocolate chip cookies with me?” she asked out of nowhere, dropping the file into her tote, and wrapping her scarf around the collar of her suit. She extended a hand toward him, and he gladly took it, standing up beside her.

“Lizzie, you can’t do that,” Red chided from his position on the coffee table.

She shrugged. “Why not? Besides Agent Ressler is coming with us.”

Agent Ressler’s eyes widened in masked surprise.

She playfully chewed at her lip, a faux innocent smile appearing on her lips as she looked him in the eye. “I smuggled some of my chocolate chip cookies into your sedan. And I want to have a pow wow with Harry, and it’s not as fun without you and you damn well know it so come on Agent Ressler let’s get going,” she finished, and to the shock of everyone including herself, she grabbed his hand, attempting to rally him in skipping away with her and Harry.

“She’s interesting,” Charlene said with a mixture of surprise and confusion on her face.

“That’s just Lizzie for you,” Red beamed, a large smile spanning his face. “She’s rock hard with everyone but her patients and it’s brilliant. Also, fabulous job of assigning Donald to her, I have a feeling her current marriage won’t work out…” and with that he picked his fedora up from the table and left.

* * *

 

Dr. Keen was sprawled across the backseat of his car, hair spilling out of her ponytail as she roared in laughter at something Harry had said. She was at ease with the pair as he dished what his life at school and in the white house was like. She was easily cracking Harry open as they talked, but if you weren’t trained in how to resist interrogation like he was, then one would never notice it. It was something he liked about her, she still did the job while allowing herself to get on a personal level with them, something that none of the therapists he had were able to do, and for that he respected her.

He still tried to remain the stoic Agent Ressler, responding to her gruffly when she asked for his opinion on her life stories and attempting not to smile at her antics. As the day progressed she was slowly creeping beneath his skin and though he should have probably cared, he just couldn’t bring himself to stop her.

Two hours passed before she started to pack up the remainder of the cookies, placing the box discreetly underneath the passenger seat with a slight smile gracing her features. She gestured to him with a gentle cock of her head, and he silently exited the car, waiting for the pair to begin to walk toward the elevator before shadowing them.

The war room was silent as the threesome stepped of the elevator, Dr. Keen stalking ahead as she flipped through the file, eyes peeled for her tiny scribbling. Harry ran past her, taking a seat next to Charlene while he stayed behind Dr. Keen, subtly guarding the elevator doors.

She bit her lip (which Agent Ressler began to notice was a habit of hers) and tucked the file under her arm, straightening her head to address the room. She cleared her throat.

“As of right now,” she began, her voice full of authority, “I am 80% positive that Harry has Schizophrenia.”

The only sound in the room was a muffled sob from Charlene.

“If you truly value my opinion,” she continued. “I usually like to gather three weeks worth of data from three hour long sessions a week before declaring a diagnosis and a plan for meds, because if you want to win this re-election, he’s going to need to go on meds.” She shrugged. “Either that or Shepard Pratt, if he indeed has Schizophrenia.”

She tapped the pen to her lip, and Agent Ressler was amazed at the fact that out of the whole room they were the only ones without a somber expression on their faces. She was good, he admitted to himself, and hopefully he’d be seeing her more often.

It was quiet for a moment, and she was sure she nearly wore her welcome.

“Agent Ressler,” President Cooper said, his eyes on Dr. Keen.

“Sir,” he responded, his usual stoic demeanor immediately intact.

“I trust you with protecting Dr. Keen from this point on, no one but you will drive her to and from these sessions, is that understood.”

He nodded curtly. “Yes, sir.”

The next time President Cooper spoke, he addressed the entire room. “This information is considered classified, if a word of this reaches the press, any one of you could be sentenced with treason, understood?”

Choruses of “yes sir’s” followed, and looking pleased with himself, he stood up to shake Dr. Keen’s hand.

“Thank you for your time Dr. Keen, you are dismissed."

She smiled warmly, tucking the file under her arm. “I am truly honored that you called me,” she replied honestly, readjusting her scarf and turning toward Agent Ressler.

“I guess it’s just you and me again,” she whispered as she approached him.

He stared at her blankly, and side-by-side they got into the elevator.

“Oh come off it,” she said teasingly. “You don’t have to be Agent Ressler all the time, I preferred you when you were signing with me in the car.”

The elevator dinged, and they walked off, him quickly jumping in the driver’s seat of the black suden and her in the passenger seat.

“You know, you’re not half bad,” he replied to her as he pulled out of the parking lot, flashing his badge to the man at the gate.

She opened her mouth in mock surprise, and immediately it was if the Berlin wall had come crashing down and the light and flirty atmosphere returned.

“I guess you wouldn’t mind me turning on the radio then?”

He chuckled, and she turned on the radio, proceeding to sing immediately, and he joined in.

Later, as they found themselves pulling onto her street, he turned the radio down significantly, and glanced at her for a fleeting second, debating with himself.

“What?” she asked, confusion creeping into her voice.

“Nothing,” he replied defensively. “It’s just… if you want, you can call me Ressler.”

She snorted. “Well I guess you can forgo the doctor and call me Keen,” she replied sarcastically as he pulled in front of her house.

“See you at seven o’clock on Wednesday morning, Keen,” he said, and she nearly rolled her eyes at him as she got out of the car.

“Don’t be late.”

She laughed, responding with a quip, “I can’t wait, Ressler,” before turning on her heel and dodging inside.


End file.
